He'd studied enough history to know that many places used to have drunk tanks. Parts of England still had them, tiny stone buildings on the edge of town now mainly viewed as historical landmarks. In their time, the town law or anyone with sense, really, could and would throw an out-of-control drunk into the drunk tanks to sober up, a night in a small, cold, dark place to get one's act together. Those seemed to be a thing of the past-maybe not? As he glanced around, he realized he was in a very similar place now, just more formal with a lot more at stake.
He groaned and ran his hand over his face, aware he smelled badly and was in need of a shower. He felt disgusting and was sure he looked it too, even in a nice suit. Really, the suit needed to go, but it was one of the very last nice things he had. In all accounts, he'd hit the bottom and was now scaping the barrel. Life was bad, really bad.
If he had anything to be thankful about right now, it was that he'd been secluded, kept from the rest of the evening's arrests and roundups. There was a perk of being a cop, if that was something, anything, really to be glad about right now. He wasn't feeling very lucky, the opposite really. It might be for the best to put him in a cell with the general crowd. Maybe right now what he needed was a good kick, a knock-out, anything to put him out of his misery because at this moment, he was miserable, absolutely miserable.
His head was killing him, adding to the misery. He had no clue how many drinks he'd thrown back the night before. It didn't matter, really, did it? He'd had plenty, enough to know he had been drunk, but not enough to care to stop. Falling off the wagon or rather staying on the wagon was made out to be this goal, something he'd strived to do, but in reality, he really didn't think people got it. Did he really want to stop drinking? He felt like he'd been convinced it was a good idea, but that was when he had a life, a family. He had nothing now, so what was the point in getting sober? It would be easier to drown himself in the bottle. It would be better than facing the reality he had in front of him now. Sometimes, you just had to forget the pain, drown your sorrows. Sometimes, a person fell into the depths of despair with no interest in climbing out.
Heels on the cold cement floor had him look up, and instantly, he groaned, spotting the utter annoyance attached to those heels. He closed his eyes and sighed. Before she could reach the cell, he turned and stretched out on the metal cot, the dingy metal cot, and he looked up at the ceiling. Anything was better than looking at her, even lying on a filthy cot, one that hundreds before him had used. If his day was as bad as it could get, it was somehow about to get worse.
The echo stopped, and he knew she'd reached the cell door. He didn't want to look at her. He had a good idea of what she thought of him, just another washed out cop. Really, she should just go ahead and fire him, and he decided to tell her that.
"Just get it over and fire me," he said in an angry grumble, putting his arm over his forehead. He continued to look up at the ceiling.
"That would almost be too easy," he heard her say, and something she had on rattled against the bars. It sounded almost like a watch or bracelet. That sound echoed throughout the room. "SIT UP," she snapped at him. He might have jumped; he might have responded quickly, but he really didn't have the energy or interest anymore. He knew what was coming. Instead, he casually shifted his feet to the side and rolled himself up. She could fire him, but he wasn't about to let her order him around, not now, not ever. His appearance was bad; he'd already determined that. The stench seemed to be getting worse. Andy ran his hand through his hair. His hand was sticky, and it stuck to his hair. He yanked on it and dropped his hand to his side before he looked over at her.
"You know," he frowned as he made eye contact with her and yawned, "you're annoying as ever."
There she stood, Raydor, the head of FID, the queen bee, the head of the rat squad-one of the most irritating people in the LAPD. She stood there, he observed, in a black suit, fitting for his mood. He felt like this was a funeral, his end with the LAPD. It was a somber event, and she was dressed for the occasion. Black pant suit, black heels-the same heels that had clicked loudly down the hallway-she stood there with a large file packet in her arms. Her hair was pulled back at the bottom of her neck, and she had on those glasses-glasses he felt that could, at times, stare right through him. He couldn't look intimidated. Instead, he looked to her, trying to convey a bored look, a look that he just wanted this all to end.
"Got my termination paperwork there?" Andy nodded to her file. "You know, it was so nice of you to come deal with me this time. Last couple times you sent Nelson. That guy is a real idiot. I know it must be the end when I've been escalated to your desk."
He looked over to her, trying not to show his surprise. She wasn't looking back at him, but she was studying his file. She had it open. He frowned, disappointed she wasn't answering him. He shook his head and looked to the floor. A noise was driving him crazy. It was loud, like a pounding.
"Must you tap your foot?" he snapped, hoping that would get her to look at him. He stared down at it, that foot of hers tapping away there on the concrete. Those black heels, they were making an insane amount of noise, and he wanted it to stop now.
"You completed rehab six months ago," she stated, clearing her throat. "Was this your first time falling off the wagon since rehab, or was this just the first time you were caught?"
"First time," he grumbled.
"Sorry?" she asked. "Try speaking up and clarifying your statement," she enunciated. When he glanced at her, he noticed she now had a pen in her hand, taking notes and was looking at him.
"I've been sober until last night," he stated and then dropped his head. "No point now."
"That's just a great attitude," she nodded, jotting down a note. "You haven't been violent before, so what excuse do you have for getting into a bar fight?" Andy shrugged, and she rolled her eyes. "Now you look like a child, shrugging off responsibility. I'm waiting."
"Just a lot of things on my plate. World came crashing down," he stated in a low tone, now looking to the floor. "Look, can we just get this over? Go ahead," he waved with his hand, his head still dropped, "fire me. Let me know what to do and where to go to turn in my service weapon and everything else-conduct unbecoming. I'm waiting. Let's just get this over. I'm sure you have better places to be in the middle of the night."
"I certainly do," she stated. "Officers like you seem to keep me busy every hour of the day. "Stand up," she ordered him. "You'll be out of here shortly."
"What about my arraignment?" Andy asked.
"Your friend," she rolled her eyes, "Provenza talked to the bartender. He's not going to press charges, even though I really think he should. That doesn't get you off the hook entirely."
"Still fired," he grumbled.
"No," she pursed her lips. "You're not fired, but you're not going back to homicide, not right now. You're not going anywhere except up to my office first thing in the morning. Detective," she said, drawing out the word and making eye contact with Andy, "you ever hear of cats having nine lives? If you compare that to your own situation, I'd say you are on the eighth life, meaning you're about out of them. We'll discuss that further, along with your future in this department after you do something about," she waved at him up and down, her face disgusted, "all of that. Detective, when you get out of here, clean yourself up and be in my office 7:30 AM sharp. A minute late, and well," she paused and frowned at him, "let's just say that you'll be out of those lives if that happens."
She snapped her file closed, gave him another glance, and she turned quickly and started to walk away. The heels started to echo again, and he closed his eyes at the sound. His head was killing him. He reached up to run his hand through his hair again, and he groaned, his sticky hand getting caught in the hair. He'd gotten something on it at the bar. It was throbbing too, mostly from the punch he'd thrown earlier in the evening. He glanced down the hallway. She was gone; the hallway was empty. He'd been forgotten, alone there in a cell, and that seemed to fit his life, alone and forgotten.
No one else walked down the hallway. She'd said the charges were being dropped, but he really didn't know what that would mean for his future. What future? Honestly, he didn't care. Right now, he had no future. He had nothing, was nothing. He slumped back down on the cold, hard cot. It felt good to sit, even if it was a jail cell cot. Currently, it was the only bed he had; that was another story, one he didn't want to think of now.
It was the middle of the night. He, a cop, was in jail. He was drunk and had no problem with that. He was at the end of his rope, on his last life, as even annoying Raydor had said, and he had no interest in doing anything right now, except maybe getting another drink, if only he could get another drink. With that not being an option behind bars, he closed his eyes and tried to stop the pounding in his head. It wasn't a European drunk tank, but it was close. At least now, tonight, even if behind bars, he had a place to put his head.